


Hunter

by Dougifyouknowme12345



Category: Gangsta. (Manga)
Genre: Action, Bromance, Canon-Typical Violence, Gangsters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-29
Updated: 2016-09-28
Packaged: 2018-08-18 10:44:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8159315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dougifyouknowme12345/pseuds/Dougifyouknowme12345
Summary: This is basically the scene with Striker and Worick from episode 12, if Nic had intervened. Spoiler alert if you're not caught up in the anime.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I didn't put a warning on this one because the violence isn't exactly graphic, but be warned there is some blood and pain. In regards to translation issues, I chose to call the drug "celebre" in this fic, because it's the most common version. Also, sometimes Mikhail's name is Michael, but I prefer Mikhail.

“I guess this is why Normals shouldn’t hang around with Tags, huh?”

Striker flicked the end of the knife that was embedded in Worick’s stomach, making the handyman twitch. He remained annoyingly passive, though Striker could see beads of sweat forming around his temples. He smirked.

Striker grabbed the front of Worick’s wrinkled button-down shirt.

“Where’s Monroe?”

The older man said nothing. His eyes – eye, rather – stared back defiantly.

“Tch, so boring. All of you, the same.”

Striker’s thumb slipped under the strap of Worick’s eyepatch and ripped it off. The scar over his eyelid was white and jagged, and Striker could tell it wasn’t from a blade. A burn, maybe.

“What’s under this, huh, Arcangelo?”

Striker could really smell his fear now. It was sour. Absolutely delicious.

“I bet your Tag friend gave you this one. Yeah, I bet he snapped one day, and turned on you like the animal he is. Filthy Twili – ”

“Shut up.”

There it was.

“Oh, Arcangelo, did I hit a nerve? Speaking of your loyal dog, where is he? Shouldn’t he be guarding you now, protecting you from harm?” On the last word, Striker twisted the knife. He was rewarded with a grunt of pain from the handyman.

“Now let’s finish this game. Tell me where the old man is and I’ll end your suffering.”

Worick’s mouth curved up at one corner. “This is a game you’re gonna lose, hunter.”

“Bastard.” Striker’s thumb moved up and pressed against the scarred eyelid.

“No!” Worick cried, suddenly struggling to get out of Striker’s grasp.

The hunter laughed at the Normal’s vain attempts to escape. That eye must be a real soft spot for him.

“Come on, Arcangelo, let me take a peek.”

His thumbnail dug into the scar tissue and drew blood as Worick squirmed. He pressed harder and the folds of skin began to yield. Striker’s teeth were bared in a cruel grin.

A scent in the air and a flash of movement out of the corner of his eye made Striker jump back just as a katana blade slashed through the space where he’d just been standing.  

A black-haired Tag landed with a soft thud on the carpeted floor of the office, the sword held in front of him.

“Speak of the devil.” Striker’s grin grew wider. This was going to be fun.

* * *

 

_You okay?_ Nicolas signed over his shoulder at Worick, who still sat slumped against the wall. Worick responded with a thumbs up, and Nic turned back to the hunter.

“A/0? So, you’re a pretty strong one?”

Nicolas watched the man’s lips move, then nodded, smirking in a way that bared his canines.

“And that guy is your contract holder?” Striker went on, “He’s brave, for a Normal. He wouldn’t tell me where Danny Monroe went. But maybe he’ll crack, once he sees me put down his pet, eh, Tag?”

Nic shook his head and jumped forward, matching Striker’s speed thanks to what Worick knew was another overdose on celebre. As grateful as Worick was for Nic coming in to save his ass, he couldn’t help but wish there was some other way for him to fight without taking stupid risks.

Striker defended from the sword slashes with his tonfas, parrying them easily, albeit with a bit of effort. Nic kept up his onslaught, pushing Striker backwards – away from Worick – one step at a time. Worick’s eye flicked over to where Miles was still lying unconscious in the corner of the room. He wasn’t worried though. Striker’s attention was completely on Nic.

The katana thrust into the air where a second ago Striker had been standing, and Worick winced when the dual tonfas landed with echoed cracks against Nic’s back. The handyman stumbled but kept his footing and whirled around to defend himself. His eyes were wild, like a trapped animal, and Worick realized the outcome of this fight might not be a good one. From what he could tell, this hunter was a better, stronger fighter than both Erica and the little demon kid, Mikhail.

Nic’s sword could barely keep up with both of Striker’s weapons. The screech of metal against metal was growing louder and faster until it was replaced by another thud and a crack – skin and bones being hit rather than a weapon. Worick, through the haze of blood loss, saw Nic topple to the floor.

Striker laughed loudly and planted a foot on Nic’s neck, keeping him pinned to the floor.

“You _are_ strong,” he said, sounding impressed, “You almost had me on the ropes there.”

Nic growled beneath his foot, his right hand crawling towards his fallen katana.

Striker stomped his other foot down on Nic’s wrist with a sickening crunch. And as if that wasn’t enough, he hit the hand with his tonfa, breaking Nic’s fingers.

“Oh boy, you don’t know when to quit, huh? You’d be fun to play with if I wasn’t in such a hurry.”

Worick forced himself not to react when Striker picked up Nic’s katana and stabbed it through his shoulder, pinning the handyman to the floor unceremoniously. Nic barely reacted either. The celebre may not have made him strong enough to beat Striker, but it was still dulling his sense of pain.

Striker sauntered back over to Worick, sheathing his weapons as he went.

“So, Mr. Handyman, are you ready to spit it out? Or do you want me to finish off your buddy?”

Nic’s eyes met Worick’s. With Striker’s back to him, Nicolas couldn’t know what he was saying. Still he signed to his friend, _Keep him talking._

Worick gritted his teeth in annoyance. Yeah, like that had been working before Nicolas got there.

Striker squatted down in front of him and grabbed Worick’s chin between his fingers. His grip felt like steel.

“C’mon,” he said, surprisingly soft, “This doesn’t have to go any longer. I’ll cut you and your friend loose once you tell me everything.”

As difficult as it was, with Striker’s hand firm around his jaw, Worick smiled. “Yeah… about that,” he said, “I have no idea where Monroe is.”

The hold on him tightened, Striker’s fingers digging into his skin. “The fuck are you talking about? You work for the old man.”

“I do. And when I came in here to see him he was gone. Disappeared. I don’t know where he went.”

Striker slapped him, a backhanded strike that practically gave him whiplash. Then the hand came back, this time around his throat. “If you don’t tell me where the old man is NOW, I swear I won’t leave anything behind when I kill you. Not a single hair that your cop buddies could use to identify you. TALK!”

The last word was screamed into Worick’s face, spittle flying out to land on his cheek. His breath was stopped by a squeeze around his windpipes. Worick’s left hand came up to grab Striker’s wrist, and when the hunter’s eyes flicked down automatically at the touch, Worick stabbed him in the neck with two syringes, which until a second ago had been hidden beneath his pants leg.

“Wha -?” Striker said, stepping away from Worick and ripping the needles out of his skin.

“Downers,” Worick wheezed, “Special for you, failure.”

The drug started to take effect fast. The hunter’s eyes drooped and he stumbled. Worick grinned as his reliable partner finally jumped back into action, aiming a solid kick into Striker’s side and sending him crashing out of the office window. The smash of breaking glass sounded far away to Worick’s ears. The adrenaline rush was apparently fading away, and the pain from all his wounds was hitting him at once.

Nic signed something at him, and Worick blinked. Everything was blurry. “Nic…” he groaned, his fingers weakly brushing against the handle of the knife. He’d almost forgotten it was still jammed into his stomach. He hissed loudly when the blade slid out of his flesh. Immediately after, Worick vaguely felt something being pulled tightly around his waist. It dug into his wound and he moaned, but Nic’s voice mumbled into his ear almost comfortingly.

“Stop the bleeding,” he said haltingly, “Dr. Theo will help. And Nina. You’ll be okay.”

“Tch. Save your voice for something important, Nic… Just get me the hell out of here.”

He was gingerly pulled to his feet. He bit his lip to stop from screaming as his broken ribs and stab wound seemed to scream at _him_.

“Can you walk?”

Worick nodded and took a step forward. The funny thing was that there didn’t seem to be a floor under his feet anymore. Worick felt himself falling…


End file.
